


Certain Things to Accept - Part II

by Persephone



Series: Willing to Take the Risk [13]
Category: Valentine's Day (2010)
Genre: Canon Gay Character, Canon Gay Relationship, Dysfunctional Family, Family, Family Drama, Father-Son Relationship, Fatherhood, L.A. Life, Los Angeles, M/M, Rare Characters, Rare Fandoms, Rare Pairings, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Wedding Planning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 22:30:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1404901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persephone/pseuds/Persephone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things you can't take back. Holden has hustled to take back his wedding date. But what has his encounter with his father opened up?</p><p>
  <span class="small">
    <i><b>A/N:</b> Thank you all so, so much for your continued patience with such a late update!</i>
  </span>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

This was not promising to go well. 

But he stood by the doors and said nothing at all. 

Soirée’s showrooms were midsize ballrooms, designed to show in various parts of the room what the aesthetics of a total wedding package might look like.

In contrast to the last time he had been with Holden at a wedding designer’s showroom, in Beverly Hills before the season, Holden was unsociable and tense. He stood stiffly in the middle of the room silently taking in the designer’s fast but professionally modulated explanations of Cecelia’s choices, setups of which were displayed throughout the room.

Holden had been the one to ask to see it, though he had suggested that that might not be the best idea. They were meant to be throwing it all out anyway. But Holden had insisted, saying he wanted to see exactly what Cecelia had been up to and Soirée had immediately arranged to include the showing in their visit. And so here they were.

He had to admit that Holden was doing a fantastic job of not showing his hate. But guaranteed, Holden was going to have a satisfying time pulling the plug on all his mother’s hard work. No doubt though, Holden had earned the right.

Marissa, the poised planner Holden had picked, was older, Cuban, and seemed to know just how to channel Holden’s barely contained agitation at what he was seeing. She spoke casually, as though every choice Cecelia had made was a default option and not anything Cecelia might have put too much thought into.

He himself remained by the entrance, his hands behind his back and his eyes squarely on Holden, and he was doing so partly from watching Holden sympathetically. But mostly for…well, more delicate reasons.

He was keeping his eyes from attempting to stray, occasionally having to consciously make them stay on Holden and look around the room, not wishing to show any inadvertent reactions.

But try as he might he couldn’t help it. His heart was racing at being in mere proximity to the things he had only seen in composed images. He kept glancing at the glinting gold roses in their cubes of black glass, the mysterious twin sets of small bottles of what looked like gold dust, at the blinding-white linen brocades and the black table cards with his and Holden’s initials scripted in gold ink. Everything that had entranced him in Cecelia’s planner’s book laid out in vivid life.

He simply loved everything he was seeing. As though the essence of his feelings had been strained into three dramatic colors. Distinctly, however, he remembered Holden’s intense dislike for its “overdone royalty theme.” Though he couldn’t see what Holden was talking about. And he was genuinely baffled because he couldn’t tell what Cecelia had done so differently, why being in a showroom in L.A. hadn’t gotten a rise out of him but being in this room with Holden made him want to get on one knee and propose all over again. 

Perhaps this was just what dumb luck looked like. Or maybe Holden was right and his parents really were evil, and this was what true chaos looked like in Wilson relationships.

He fought off amusement.

Nevertheless, he thought of that same afternoon in Beverly Hills, of the near nausea he had felt knowing he was going into the season with unresolved issues and knowing he could do nothing about it. Compared to how he felt now, he was finding it hard to dislike this moment, and wanted to just smile and keep smiling.

Holden finally turned from the last grouped items, signaling that he had seen enough, and started toward him and the doors.

Marissa followed and upon reaching him indicated with both hands and a smile that he follow Holden out.

Moments later they were standing in the glass-walled atrium of the headquarters, waiting by the gleaming, dark-green miniature palms that bordered the way to Marissa’s office. Behind them, uniformed Soirée assistants grandly closed the ballroom doors with two hands and many smiles.

Holden came up beside him, his thoughts very obviously in check, but a look lodged in his eyes that he was about to go through an ordeal he’d rather not.

“Ready?” Holden asked.

He nodded, and Marissa smiled and led the way.

—

Following the night on Holden’s godfather’s boat—he was reeling from that one—he had sent Alastair a text requesting that he or Cecelia send along the guest list they had used to send their invitations. They had obviously had one.

The next day a list arrived via fax from Cecelia. Standing at Holden’s home office door watching page after endless page spill out of the fax machine, he had thought it was some kind of joke. But going over to stand beside Holden who had been about to leave for work, he saw that it was anything but.

He had picked up a sheet and stared disbelievingly at the interminable, small print rows of names, wondering once more if he was mistaking the nature of the document. About to comment, he had glanced at Holden and had instantly not done that.

Eyes on the sheets and his lips set in a thin, expressionless line, Holden had stood completely still. The night with Alastair had been two nights before, but to his eyes Holden still looked a little raw; the skin around his nose still reddish and the air about him still profoundly confused. Holden hadn’t talked about the night since then. 

He had brought his attention to the list again, the thought occurring to him that the size of the list might not be what was making Holden look so grim.

The list had been sectioned into Wilson family “circles,” with the top small tier already italicized and marked “Sent.”

None of his family’s names—each of which spellings Cecelia had gotten correct, including his sisters’ hyphenated married names—were in that top tier.

Not really surprised, seeing as no one in his family had called about receiving an invitation out of the blue, he didn’t respond either way. But apparently a confirmation in writing had done wonders in pushing Holden’s temperature towards a steam setting.

He had been setting the sheets down when Holden had abruptly turned to him, hesitating for a second as though about to pick them up. But still raw or no, Holden hadn’t picked up the sheets and had instead pulled him in for a kiss. 

Arm slung tight around his waist, the kiss had come firmly against his cheek, like a reaffirmation of their struggle. Holden had then released him and had tersely said he’d see him later.

Holden had left for work without taking the list.

Over the next three nights, Holden, and his friends he presumed, had stayed out late working on it, returning late each evening tense and withdrawn, but never uttering a word in protest.

Seeing as he himself had wanted a small wedding from the start, his own invite list had been minuscule: his family and a handful of friends in Johnston, a few friends and coaches from across the league, and had been about it. He had spent less than two hours the previous evening putting it together.

So he had known he could be of little help and had spent the time working as a pressure release valve instead, baking Holden sweet things to eat, listening to him talk about his day as if everything was normal, giving him physical attention when it looked like he needed it, and staying out of the way when it didn’t.

It hadn’t been a fun experience for either of them but he had only cared that Holden get it out of the way. He remembered Allison and Kay’s wedding, and Michelle and Davey’s, and what he remembered most was how much fun his family and close friends had had. What he remembered least was who else had been there.

On the third night, Holden came home and announced rather unceremoniously that the list was done. 

Planted in the foyer, eyes unwavering, Holden had told him that all the Johnston invitations were going out same-day delivery the next morning. Holden had said it like daring him or anyone else to challenge the decision.

He had gone over and had given him a congratulatory kiss and told him he was wonderful. Then, making him sprawl out on the sofa in the den, he had given him a foot massage while sitting through reruns of the doctors TV show, which was apparently comforting in times of stress. Then they had planned their trip to Miami.

The invite list being one crossed, they had so many more bridges to go.

—

Back at Marissa’s office, side by side on her chintz sofa, they listened to Soirée’s presentation. High definition images floated across flatscreens set into the office walls. Stemware, flower arrangements, table cards, linens, furniture styles, streams of color tiles — anything and everything that went into a ceremony with over four hundred and fifty guests.

They heard the details of how putting together a brand new wedding package would work, which seemed straightforward enough due to the thankfully efficient way the company did things. Aspects of the ceremony’s design were broken up into what Soirée called “themes,” chunks of aesthetics comprising a whole look, each of which were neatly color-coded. So much so that interchanging the aesthetics worked quickly and easily so long as the couple knew what kind of ceremony they had in mind. 

There Marissa paused and waited for them.

Neither of them said a word. Mainly because neither of them knew what kind of ceremony they had, or were supposed to have, in mind.

They had no idea what their “theme” was, what impression they wished their guests to take from their ceremony. They hadn’t discussed any of it.

He was just as surprised as Holden probably was. Because frankly, he was of the mind that it was enough that they were in love, and an exchange of a few lines under a canopy—made of flowers, naturally, freshly cut, and not just the plain white poplin some couples used—would more than convey that to anyone watching.

But one glance at Holden assured him that there might be more to it than that.

Holden was seated back in the sofa with an ankle resting on one knee. He was dressed in a dark grey three-piece suit that seemed to perfectly suit his mood, and was steadily holding Marissa’s gaze. With an expression like he might not be ready for any wedding ceremony at all.

Marissa’s smile didn’t falter. From her position in an armchair facing them, she leaned forward accommodatingly and gave them an even more reassuring smile.

“This is perfectly normal,” she said, and with such reassurance that he believed her. “Though it might not feel this way to you as yet, our couples usually already know what they want. It’s why you chose Soirée. So just take the time and express it to each other. We find that once that’s done, we can put together the ceremony of your dreams with no trouble at all.”

“Even with the shortness of time?” he asked her.

She gave him one reassuring shake of her head. “Not a problem.”

Holden was slowly nodding, though in a way that meant he was simply accepting the speaker’s words at face value.

Soirée or not, he knew that Holden didn’t have a ceremony of his dreams, _he_ did. And he could also see that despite wanting to stand by his decision to go forward, this particular process on top of his mother’s actions was trying Holden’s good graces in ways he was sure Holden hadn’t anticipated.

“Let’s say a week to get back us then?” Marissa asked. “At which point we can start putting together your designs.”

Holden looked at him. “A week okay with you, Sean?” 

“Yes,” he said, in the tone he used to confirm strategies on the field to a doubting teammate. “A week’s perfect. Thanks.”

“Great,” Marissa said. “We can also make arrangements to see the venue then.”

Marissa then turned to a side table and picked up a bound dark leather package. She held it flat and forward toward like presenting an award, and explained that it was a brand new package the company had prepared for them. Inside it was a fresh copy the company’s Wedding Book—the one with the dreamy couple running toward the private jet, a copy of which was currently somewhere in Holden’s condo. 

But, she explained, the company required that they get a fresh one when a couple was starting from scratch.

Her words appealed to him, reassuring him that they weren’t the only ones who had misstepped along the way to a wedding as big as the one the Wilsons were planning.

Also included in the package were a set of questionnaires and worksheets.

“These are for helping you sort thoughts,” Marissa explained, tapping the questionnaires. “We find them to be very effective.”

With all of it came water in designer bottles for the road. They stood up together and he took the lot and thanked her.

Walking them to the elevators, Marissa tapped the call button and told them she would see them soon, waited with them with her continual smile, and waved as the doors closed.

Inside the elevator, he moved to one side and leaned against the wall. 

About to sigh aloud with the simple relief at having accomplished this part, he quickly remembered that Holden wasn’t there under the happiest of circumstances. 

So he pulled on a small smile instead.

“Well, that went pretty well,” he said.

Holden looked at him with a baffled expression like they couldn’t be talking about the same thing. 

“Sean, that was brutal,” he quietly said. “My parents are insane.”

“That stuff’s floor display now,” he replied. “No better than yesterday’s news, so don’t let it get to you.”

Holden’s expression remained tight, not seeming inclined to find any of it comforting.

And leaning with a shoulder against the elevator wall, he carefully observed Holden. When they had landed at a private airfield at Miami International that morning, he had told Holden that just because they were going on Cecelia’s timetable didn’t mean they had lost. That the decision to carry on with his mother’s date had been his and his alone. 

Holden had said he knew, and agreed, and that he was fine going forward just as long as it was on their own terms.

And Holden did in fact seem fine, completely back to himself as, say, compared to just a few days before. And certainly back from the man who had spent two days wandering his condo in self-doubt after canceling his wedding date. He seemed typically ready and able to take on the consequences of his decisions without too much fuss.

But that had been before they had seen just how thoroughly Cecelia had been about to “handle” their wedding.

“Listen sweetheart,” he said. “You’re quarterbacking this thing. And if you’re not up for it, and I mean it, if you don’t want to do this, you just call off the play and it’s over. I don’t care how late in the game it is, I’m not taking the ball for any other reason.”

Holden had been staring at him as he spoke. When he finished, Holden tightened his lips, then narrowed his eyes. “Can I start fining you every time you use a sports metaphor outside of ESPN?” Holden asked softly. “I think I should have that right.”

He didn’t respond, knowing perfectly well when Holden was making a fake-out play of his own.

Holden lowered his eyes. “I’m fine, Sean. And I think I needed to see that. I think throughout the whole of last week I was still in shock. Now I just want to get back and start undoing this mess.” Holden’s eyes flew to him. “I— I don’t mean—”

“I know,” he said. “So that means you’re still okay with talking to them after we get back? Like we discussed.”

“Oh, definitely.”

“By which I mean Alastair as well?”

Holden’s eyes instantly shifted off him.

It happened so fast, he was surprised to suddenly find himself looking at the side of Holden’s face. 

But Holden had turned and was now mesmerized by the panel indicating their descent. 

He could almost hear him demanding for the car to move faster.

“Sweetheart?”

“Yeah, sure,” Holden said.

This time he did sigh, quietly. So no, Holden hadn’t quite made progress on what had happened with his dad.

~*~


	2. Chapter 2

Since that night on the boat, Holden hadn’t so much as mentioned Alastair by reference, much less by name. Something which didn’t entirely seem possible seeing as Alastair had been burning up Holden’s phone.

He knew it because, even if he couldn’t have just presumed it, he had noticed Holden finally look at his phone when they had been boarding the flight to Miami. A text in it had clearly aggravated him, yet had made him blush furiously so that seconds later he banged his shin against the edge of a seat, and then quickly told him he was fine. And then had taken his seat and had sat there sending out telepathic signals meant to block him from asking any questions. He recognized the general pattern.

Now as they prepared to board the flight back, while he waited for Holden to personally thank each of the charter flight service’s check-in personnel, he suspected that this morning, Holden hadn’t looked at his phone.

That much he knew because Holden had that focused air about him which he had seen and not quite understood for so many years in their relationship, that meant something on his mind was distracting him but that he didn’t want to deal with. A condition that on top of Holden’s natural curiosity, was going to make him ask a whole lot of personal questions of the poor unsuspecting crew.

And he had to admit to being surprised by the resolute silence. He had thought that even if unwilling to deal with Alastair himself, Holden would have at least voiced a thought—or several—on whether he still considered his father’s attitude to be a hoax.

Or, whether upon reflection, he could now see that there was the tiniest possibility that Alastair’s reaction had been sincere. Sure, Alastair had said some rough things, but so could anyone when things got that heated.

But Holden hadn’t said a word. And as Holden finished with the crew, making sure they understood that they weren’t to overwork themselves on their behalf, before coming to join him on the walkway, he knew that all he could do was wait and see what was coming down the line.

Holden approached him, and asked, “When are Anne and Wil calling again?”

Following him into the walkway, he gave Holden a sidelong glance. That, he hadn’t been expecting. “Tonight after we get back.”

Holden didn’t even nod. Just walked on with very a focused look.

—

Holden’s question, not to mention that look, made him wonder whether they were about to be blindsided by a problem he hadn’t anticipated. 

One in the form of the anticipated phone calls from his family.

Having received their invitations, his dad had called on behalf of everyone and asked when would be a good time to call and congratulate them. 

Not wanting to distract from their trip, he had asked him to hold off until after they got back from Miami. Everyone else would be calling afterward.

A second reason he had waited was because he hadn’t wanted Holden latching on to his family and using them as a shield against the things he didn’t want to deal with in his own family.

Because it certainly hadn’t given him comfort that Holden had insisted that they not tell any of them about the tension with the Wilsons. It was as if, having committed to the wedding date under such abnormal circumstances, Holden wanted desperately to present them during the calls as a normal, average couple just having sent out their invitations and excited to hear from family.

The question before boarding the flight and the look on Holden’s face hadn’t done a thing to allay these fears.

But that night when they got back, as they settled in to take the call from his mom and dad, he watched what was happening in front of him and he knew there was no way he had the heart to make an issue of any of it.

Holden looked liked he was about to have the happiest hours of his life in quite some time.

Holden first grabbed his phone, the one he had left on the nightstand and whose ringer was on loud in anticipation of the call, and trampled into bed checking its ring setting. 

Then he laid on the bed and placed it in front of him, propped his head in his hand and then commenced to stare down at it. Waiting for it to ring.

Lying perpendicular to him, he just watched him stare at the phone like an open door he was about to walk through and meet up with good friends, and reasoned that maybe he was being insensitive.

Maybe he took his own happy family life too much for granted. It was the first time they would be talking to his parents since leaving Johnston, after all, and maybe he ought to just let Holden have this.

So he said nothing. Stretching his big toe a little, he stroked it over Holden’s ankle, making Holden look at him. He smiled encouragingly when Holden did so, and Holden smiled back.

Then the phone dinged twice and Holden was instantly on it and quickly slid it unlocked.

“Hi Anne, hi, Wil. It’s Holden.”

“Oh, honey!” his mother cried. “Congratulations!”

And...he waited for a beat...and nope, his mother didn’t ask whether he was there.

Instead his father immediately jumped in, in the same unselfconscious, and extremely earnest manner, and his heart felt like it would burst from the sweetness of it. They were like little kids who had befriended each other.

His parents sounded the happiest he had heard them probably since he had gotten drafted into the NFL. Possibly happier, since this time there were no reservations about his choice, no unvoiced fears for their in-the-closet son in the harsh world of professional football.

Gushing and sounding very unlike themselves, all three of them began talking avidly, about the date, the venue, _the horses!_ —oh, the pictures they were going to take!—plowing onward like railroad cars on a mission.

His dad, always short for words in such times, was now more so, simply repeating how proud he was of them for getting it together like grown men and how they were going to make “a darned good couple.”

“We’re learning from the best,” Holden said zealously, still completely unselfconsciously, while he watched and listened with... something next to speechlessness.

And his mom, who usually had no problem with it, couldn’t seem to remember that she doled out emotion in strict allotments. The phone was almost vibrating with her excitement, reminding him very much of some of his conversations with Deena, as she asked questions that couldn’t really be answered at that moment but didn’t seem to care, and just generally tried to squeeze and ruffle Holden over the phone.

He had to admit he was tempted to tease all of them about it. But seeing Holden giddy and flush with happiness, and listening to his parents’ emotion filled voices, he suspected that none of them would take kindly to him making light of the moment.

He’d save his jokes for Davey in the morning.

“Sean, are you there, honey?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” he replied his mother. “Just didn’t think anyone cared.”

Holden caught his eyes and broke into silent, amused laughter, to which he shook his head that he not let it out. Anne was already condemning him for perpetually behaving like a child raised by wolves. Wil was at least chuckling.

He then answered their questions to prove how he was being responsible in every aspect of the next steps.

The call finished in a hail of talk to you soons and love yous.

Holden gently tapped to disconnect the call, then laid there staring wistfully at the phone.

“I swear I always think Anne is going to yell at me for what happened that night at their house,” Holden said softly. “You know, the night we fought?”

“Really?” he asked curiously.

Holden nodded. “I mean, it _was_ pretty obnoxious.”

He raised unsure eyebrows. He couldn’t say. He still found it hard to trace his footsteps from his bedroom to finding his mother in the kitchen, he’d been so angry. He hardly even remembered whether he’d been fully dressed or in pajamas.

“Instead,” Holden continued. “She’s always so...” he stopped, smiling to himself. “They’re pretty awesome,” he finished softly.

After which there followed a big, loaded silence.

The missing rest of the sentence bellowing into it. Of who, exactly, weren’t so awesome.

“We got this whole place to ourselves to make as much noise as we want,” he said to Holden. “If that’s what you’re into.”

Holden quirked his mouth, flicked him a sly look. “It wouldn’t be the same.”

He laughed.

Holden laughed with him, but he didn’t miss that Holden had to make an effort to maintain his smile.

~*~

The following morning Davey sent a missive of a text complaining that Michelle had framed the “damned thing” and hung up it next to theirs in the kitchen: _Dude I can’t grab a Coke without feeling like she’s trying to tell me something. Like, look how far you two losers have come! Haha. I can’t believe it’s happening though. Bachelor party part 2, right?? Say hi and congrats to Prince C for me. Or give him a cuddle if you like._

Standing behind Holden, in the artificially bright penthouse kitchen, he debated whether to show it to him before embarking on a reply. He also wished he could delete the last part. And the part about the bachelor party. But at least there was no mention of what happened at Bootleggers.

He finally showed it to Holden, holding the phone in front of him, with him in the throes of making one of his preternaturally delicious quickie breakfasts.

“Give him a cuddle back,” Holden said excitedly.

He brought the phone back, mumbling that he would, then quietly texted Davey that he could go cuddle himself. Then he did inform him of his parents’ craziness last night, which sent Davey into stitches and assured him he wasn’t going crazy.

Michelle’s call came in after, and he put her on speaker phone.

Hers was typically businesslike, of course, excited but brief, and instructive on how he was to show Holden lots of love, but that neither should let the other do all the work.

“It gets crazy,” she said rapidly, apparently in her car on the way to work. “So stick together and no fighting, you two. Sean, can you hear me?”

“Uh... line’s breaking up...”

Holden beamed at the phone. “We hear you loud and clear, Michelle. And we miss you.”

“Aww, I miss you guys too! Okay, I gotta go. Take care, bye!”

The call from Kay flashed in the moment they had disconnected from Michelle.

“Don’t you have Facetime?” Holden asked.

Murmuring a non-answer, he put Kay on speaker, who immediately told them to hold on and connected Allison who was in a hotel somewhere on the other side of the state, and who immediately asked why the call wasn’t on Skype.

Pretending not to see Holden’s raised and equally dismayed eyebrow—he refused to budge; he wasn’t about to do a tour of the penthouse so early in the morning—he greeted both women very warmly and got them worked up instantly. The absence of images didn’t matter in a moment, and thence commenced a tremendous amount of cooing.

Soon though, there were questions about wedding stuff he still had no idea about, and Holden got talking about that big backyard party he was dead set on having, and so grabbing his plate of french toast, scrambled eggs and blueberries, he hooked a glass of cranberry juice and departed for the dining room.

He remembered being excited half to death over his sister’s wedding in Boston, and Davey’s had just been one long holy shit moment, but he had to admit that being on the subjective, it’s your wedding side of it, was slightly less...one-note.

When Holden finally joined him a short while later, having spoken a little longer with Kay, Holden was smiling like a light had been turned on inside him. It was impossible to ignore. And it made him glad he hadn’t tried to dampen the whole experience for him. It seemed to have accomplished exactly what Holden wanted from the calls.

“You two done plotting?” he asked him.

“No,” Holden said, taking his seat and beginning to make his breakfast disappear in chunks. “But Kay says to tell you she’s got your back. Says she’ll make sure you look gorgeous in your wedding dress.”

“I’m getting a dress, huh?”

Holden laughed. “Apparently.”

He snorted. Then he eyed him as he ate. Those were three hard bridges crossed. Time then, to deal with the Wilsons.

~*~

Upon their return form the boat, he had suggested to Holden that they meet with Cecelia and Alastair and inform them of the process going forward. He’d felt it to be the courteous and conciliatory thing to do.

Holden had said yes to the idea, and for them to do it as a team. But that they wouldn’t be doing it together. That if he had to sit across from his mother and discuss the wedding, it wouldn’t work out for anyone.

He had taken it for the start it was.

So the arrangement had been that he’d see Cecelia and Holden would talk to Alastair. And the message to be conveyed? Simply that Holden was accepting the wedding only on the condition that both parents let go of the reins.

Meaning, neither parent was allowed to participate in the wedding preparations, period.

Not...quite what he had had in mind. But any forward momentum was a yard gained toward the touchdown zone in this particular battle. The important thing was that even after Miami, Holden was still willing to talk to the Wilsons.

Stuck by the condo doors that morning, however, they were far into their ritual of trying to part for the day, Holden for work and him for the gym downstairs, and to do it in a reasonable amount of time. But per their shabby record, it was slow going.

Talking to the Wilsons had been the very reason he had cornered Holden, but it was now the thing in danger of being scored from his mind.

His fingers laced in Holden’s, Holden was holding him by the back of the head and was slowly, deeply, kissing his senses clean.

He was aching like a sex-starved football player. Holden could make a kiss feel almost as good as a blowjob. 

And he was feeling even warmer because he was remembering standing right on that spot last November, how Holden had done exactly this before kicking him out of his condo.

And then all the horrible winter mornings that had followed when he would have given anything for just this.

His mind in pieces, he tightened his fingers in tiny pressures each time he felt Holden about to stop. It made Holden hold him a little tighter in response, stroke the back of his head a little larder, and lap a little more loving at his tongue.

He was fighting off moan after moan.

But Holden began finishing up, burying last kisses in his beard, underneath his jaw, and he began kneading his fingers, slowly winding back his mental clock. _Just five more minutes..._

Holden at last ended the kiss, slowly pulling from him and sliding his hand to a rest on his bare chest. There was a smile on Holden’s lips.

“What?” he asked him.

“I preferred this when you did it in your underwear,” Holden said softly.

“Just say which one,” he said seriously.

Holden smiled. “Maybe later.”

Then Holden started moving away, and it made him he feel like an ogre now, but he had to deal with it before it became a bigger issue. He tightened his fingers on Holden’s hand and said, “Don’t forget to call your dad.”

Holden stiffened as though he had shoved his shoulder, and his lashes fell instantly.

“You’re gonna call him, right?” he gently pressed, then held his breath. _Don’t back out now._

Holden pulled back even further, though only as far as the hand gripping him would allow.

“I’ll let you know,” he said shortly.

“Sweetheart—”

“I-I’ll call him,” Holden quickly corrected. “I just meant— I’ll let you know when I call him.”

“All right,” he said. “And I’ll be calling your mom. Like we agreed.”

“Don’t forget to give her back her book,” Holden said immediately.

“I won’t.”

He squeezed Holden’s hand and made Holden look at him. Holden did but quickly looked away. 

Holden seemed to have a lot to say, but it seemed that nowadays his sweetheart didn’t give up his words so easily. Which saddened him, and made him hope it would soon pass. He’d become a bit used to being shocked back into various forms of reality by Holden’s lack of a mind filter. Some part of him might have actually grown to love it. A little.

He reached for him and pulled him close, kissing him very suggestively on the cheek, which brought a beautiful smile to Holden’s face and made Holden shake his head.

“I have to go,” Holden said, though his fingers were exciting the small of his back and completely undermining his words.

But he obediently stood aside, and watched in silent wanting as Holden lifted a finger, indicating that he not move, and smiling like the charmer he was, quickly slid past him and out of the condo.

He closed the door behind him, placed his hand on it and took a long breath. Everyday of their relationship in this new era, so different from time time period in all the other years, was like a day of celebration. No fears, no worries about fights and breakups. It was like each day, he had made it to the championships. 

If he had his phone on him, he would have called Holden and told him he was already low on the sweet stuff and could he get some over the phone. But he merely laughed at himself, remembering that Holden had banned funny business in his office. His was the good life. 

And meanwhile, he had to hustle. There were things he needed to get organized before he could even think of calling Cecelia.

~*~

He hadn’t reached his office reception when his phone buzzed inside his jacket. Thinking it was Sean with his usual, sexily horny post-parting text, he waited until he was inside his office, had his jacket placed on the back of his chair, and was seated comfortably, before pulling out and looking at his phone.

It was a text from his father.

He set the phone down without reading it.

He then sat there staring at its slowly darkening screening. Mid-morning sun illuminated the glass and kept the black letters alive for a few more seconds, before the text finally fell completely into darkness. Right where it belonged.

He closed his eyes. _God damn it, Sean._

The point of seeing Alastair that night hadn’t been to derail him from what they were supposed to be doing. It hadn’t been to open the door to things he couldn’t even process.

Faintly, morning traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard drifted up in screeches and honks to him.

He was waiting to see whether a phone call would come through.

Waiting to see if his father was this crazy. Whether he had gotten so completely bored with retirement, and with running his household staff’s, his current wife’s, and his ex-wife’s lives that he had to keep pestering him like this.

One moment. One idiotic moment of saying one more word than he needed to. Months of carefully corralling his feelings into a closed pen so as not to give his father any more power of over him, all washed away in one moment.

He needed to stop thinking about it. 

And if his life depended on it, he wasn’t reading that text.

Those strange...

His heart beating strongly, he placed his fingers against the side of the phone and slowly shoved it away from him. Until it was underneath some folders, as far as it would go. Then he withdrew his fingers.

Somewhere in his inbox was a packet from Elliot on wedding rings and groomswear. Petey had also sent him a slightly cryptic text last night asking whether he was back in town.

The dispiriting Soirée visit was there for him to go over. And there was having to sit down and figure out his changed schedule for the summer. And then go over that and the package from Soirée with Sean. 

And at some point, he thought with a glimmer of happiness, he wanted to hand deliver Kate her wedding invitation. His only reason for not having done so because he didn’t want to see her until he was in a better mood. He disliked taking his problems to her as though that was all their friendship was about. 

All of which took a back seat to his day’s and week’s agenda.

And somewhere in the midst of all that was the time he wanted to spend this morning savoring the pure joy the phone calls from Johnston had given him.

Beside Anne and Wil making him feel as though the world was made of love and soft cushions, talking to Allison had brought back memories of sitting with her at the bonfire. Of getting weak with relief because her revelation about her coming out experience had proved to him that he hadn’t been entirely responsible for Sean’s personal crisis. For almost destroying their relationship.

And his extended conversation with Kay had gone even further to reminded him that none of the positive things happening since were a coincidence. 

He had fought very hard for his current state of happiness. And he had every right to want to protect it.

Therefore there would be no meeting Alastair today.

Sean would understand.

~*~

Sean’s light eyes were tranquil that evening when he told him he hadn’t had a chance to call Alastair. And why. Which was that he had been busy all day.

Sean was seated on the living room sofa with a side table in front of him. The table was piled with items Sean had clearly spent the day working on. Their new package from Soirée, some oversized envelopes with the NFL Players Association logo, richly colored product catalogues from menswear designers which he knew to be product endorsement portfolios, a bunch of letters, and on top of it all, the huge printout of Sean’s offseason schedule. 

Sean had also been taking in EPSN sports statistics going quietly in the background, and was now watching him with just as much equanimity.

When he saw the stack, and Sean’s tolerant gaze, he immediately knew he had made a mistake. 

He shifted to his other foot, and started apologizing before he knew he was speaking again.

— 

He listened unobtrusively as Holden stood by the staircase and not very calmly iterated the reasons he hadn’t called Alastair.

Which were essentially that he had been busy. And didn’t feel there was that much of a time pressure on it.

So here was what he had been afraid of about the phone calls from his family.

Apparently Holden had spent the day reminding himself off the remainder of that sentence he hadn’t wanted to finish about how not so awesome his own parents were.

He watched as upon saying his piece, Holden’s voice faded as his eyes took in the items on the small side table, most of which he had spent the day prioritizing, while trying not to look guilt stricken.

Holden shifted to his other foot, looked very, very beautiful in his herringbone suit, and stammered out that he was sorry.

“Sean, I-I’ll do it tomorrow. Without fail.”

“And you’ll do great, sweetheart.”

Holden clammed up. Then he said, “He doesn’t deserve this.”

“I know.”

Then he looked completely out of steam.

“Holden,” he told him gently. “I think we should hold off telling your parents that condition you talked about.”

Holden looked at him, agitated. “How can we not? It’s the only reason I’m agreeing to any of this.”

“I know, and we’ll tell ‘em. Just...one thing at a time.”

“But what’s the one thing I’ll be telling him, then? Why am I going?”

Without meaning to, his lashes lowered, unable to resist the implication that Holden knew why. 

He almost heard Holden’s silent yell of frustration.

“S-so...you have no intention of telling my mother either?” Holden asked.

“I know how I’ll approach Cecelia. Just, please, see Alastair tomorrow. He’ll want to know where we are after Miami.”

“Sean, what right does he have to know where we are at all?” Holden blurted. “This is a _privilege_ we’re giving them.”

He nodded his understanding.

After a few more moments, when Holden saw that he wasn’t going to change his mind about the decision to talk to his parents, Holden said, “Fine,” and turned away.

Holden had started up the staircase, but he got up and caught up with him several steps up, slipping his arm around his waist.

Holden seemed startled to suddenly find him there, looking over his shoulder toward the living room downstairs.

“I-I’m fine, Sean. I don’t want you interrupting your work,” Holden said flatly.

He continued to move them slowly up the stairs, careful for Holden to not lose his footing.

“I know you’re fine,” he told him, his tone contemplatively. “But listen up. I get to see you only five months out of the year. Fifty-five percent of that time, you’re on a business trip. Forty-one point six percent sees you at the office. We’re sleeping a third of what’s left— well, mostly sleeping. So what’s that leave me, Wilson?”

“Way too much time watching sports stats, I’m pretty sure.”

He turned and looked at him, holding his worried blue eyes. “You catch my point though, right?”

Holden didn’t say anything. He already looked far away.

~*~


	3. Chapter 3

Okay, so this wasn’t actually going to happen. He wasn’t insane. Why was he about to let himself go get insulted by his father again?

Turning away from his Lexus, he beeped it locked. He was several feet from the car when his conscience quietly answered him. Because he had already texted Sean that he was about to.

Because Sean had been so patient and sweet last night, and had worked so hard to make him feel like it was just the two of them in the world again.

Because for weeks Sean worked even harder to get here.

_And because you promised him._

He swore several times and turned back for his car, already reaching for the handle before pivoting once more and just walking until he was back at the elevators. He noted that the valet guys were avoiding staring at his spectacle.

The elevator arrow came on, indicating that the car was about to open and take him back up if he wished it.

He wished it.

But he saw Sean coming out of the elevator to his penthouse instead, big and warm and glowing with health, and carrying a weekend bag across his shoulders. A weekend bag that had long ago become a mere small part of the wardrobe Sean had since moved into his wardrobe room.

All because Sean was doing his utmost best to make sure that everything went well for their wedding.

While he was busy having inexplicable and unnecessary father issues.

He turned back around, walked straight and without another thought to his car, beeped it unlocked and got in.

—

Parked fifteen minutes later in the lot nearest the Club building, he remained inside his car and stared at the golf path leading to the hole he’d been told his father was playing.

He knew how he’d do this. He would go in, say what he had to say, _“Miami was fine, we’re back in control of our own lives, thanks for nothing,”_ and get out of there. He wouldn’t let himself get derailed by fake emotional father-son nonsense. And he wouldn’t think...

He stopped thinking.

 _Don’t think about it,_ he begged his distressed thoughts. _Just don’t let yourself go there._

But of course his mind didn’t just go there, it rushed right over and camped out there.

He wouldn’t think about that night. And why he cried.

Dropping his hands from the steering wheel, he sat staring at the seat between his legs, and waited for the flush that had hit his face to pass.

God knows he hadn’t meant to lose it that night. He’d thought he’d been prepared, ready after their fight last summer when he _hadn’t_ been prepared. 

But instead of— instead of _anything,_ he had wholly lost his composure. Fallen hook and line for his father’s manipulation. 

He had listened, actually _listened,_ like an idiot while his father did what he had to do to get the upper hand.

He knew Alastair. Last summer it had been anger in response to his push back over Sean. Anger had been all Alastair had in his arsenal. Now with his father actually liking Sean, and seeing the affection with which Sean treated him publicly, the response on the boat hadn’t been something as ineffectual as anger would have been. It had been instead a show of something his dad felt was love. 

He had gone over how he could have let it happen, so many times, and the only conclusion he could reach was that he had momentarily let his feelings for Sean and the feelings that bubbled up so naturally for Sean’s family confuse him about how love worked. Excited him for possibilities for his own.

His face was on fire.

But as he sat there there pushing emotions away—so many, and so irritatingly jumbled up—he saw that there was a silver lining. The afterglow which he had fought so hard to hold on to from Johnston, and even through Sean making him return to his condo several days after their return, had finally burned off in the reality of life in L.A. 

He did know how to handle his parents, especially his father, and that was to ignore them.

Ignore the noise, ignore the texts.

Those annoying— _affectionate_ texts. Words which could only make sense if his father was actually in the throes of writing a joke book on bad parenting. 

Was his father crazy? Appeals to let go of the past, to try and look to a better future in a father-son relationship. Offers that he was there if he needed to talk.

Talk about what? How to get Sean in line? How to make sure Sean understood whose family name he was about to collect?

And above all... ignore the embarrassingly... _naive_ reactions each one caused in him.

He wasn’t _the apple_ of his father’s eye. God. He wasn’t six, and even at six he hadn’t heard words like that. Why the hell would he start believing them now?

He dropped his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes.

He hoped Sean was having a really great morning.

~*~

It was a beautiful spring day in Los Angeles. With possibly way too much pleasure, he pushed the button to open the sunroof on his Navigator, and felt his heart soaring with the increased light level inside the car. 

And pulling out of the gas station, he smoothly merged onto the Pacific Coast Highway and headed north.

In anticipation of his meeting with Cecelia, he was leaving the Westside to spend the day in Malibu. Finally ready to crack open Soirée’s package, he wanted sun and open air to do his clear thinking. He wasn’t about to sit with Cecelia and talk about a wedding she was taking as seriously as a playoff game unless he knew his own playbook cover to cover.

And as he leisurely drove up the highway, March sunlight sparkled off the water, showing him exactly what he was missing every day being landlocked in a glass and concrete tower.

But on a morning this beautiful, he banished all negative thoughts from his mind. And hoped to high heaven that Holden was actually honoring his text that he was on his way to see Alastair. 

If Holden didn’t, he’d have to think of drastic measures like threatening to cut off their communication with all things Johnston until they finished dealing with the Wilsons. 

The mere thought of which made his body involuntarily brace itself at the big giant “No” that would undoubtedly and immediately follow. 

He chose to remain optimistic that the meeting was taking place.

Exiting the highway onto his neighborhood, he first stopped by his beloved and much missed fresh foods grocers for some fruits and veggies, anticipating a rejuvenating smoothie post-run.

Arriving on his street shortly after, he was pleased to see that it just as he had left it three weeks ago. Quiet, peaceful. Nice to pull up to the intersection, too, and not see TMZ’s car parked there—they were scoping him on the Westside these days—or the bodyguards Holden had unleashed on him a year ago. 

Those guys were somewhere around, but would likely wait until he had parked and entered his house before themselves parking on the street.

Hauling his groceries, he stood in his front stoop tapping in his door code, and was only mildly surprised that he was getting assailed with the same kinds of memories from the last three years that had welcomed him home from Johnston. 

Of so many nights standing there doing just that while Holden chatted away at his elbow, smelling like the best damn sex he was about to taste and never forget, and made him dream of the morning after.

He stood for a moment and imagined he could smell him now. Then shook his head. He was in love with the memories his house now held.

Inside, a bright ocean view welcomed him from weeks of absence and it was like walking into a very nice dream.

And as he stood there, looking around, he began realizing that though he had always thought of it as his house, especially seeing as Holden didn’t care for it, it had actually long ago become their house.

Holden might not like the place, but the place loved him. And even now, with the TV off and both recliners empty, and nothing being carried out and banged into the sliding door, it was palpable that the house very much missed its other master.

Grinning, knowing Holden would have a field day setting him straight, he took the groceries into the kitchen and deposited them in the fridge.

Then he headed straight for the bedroom to change into running gear. There were no words for how powerfully the sand and surf were calling to him.

Meantime, he really hoped that Holden was being nice to his father.

~*~

Stepping out from the walkway going around the Club building, he walked onto the golf path and stayed to the side, next to the tall hedgerows.

As if cued to his arrival, the sound of whizzing golf cart reached his ears. He straightened from the hedge and waited for his father to appear.

The golf cart zipped up the curve of the path and parked several yards from him. He watched as his father got out, imparting the usual words of encouragement to his caddy, before starting towards him. 

The moment Alastair was close enough, he told him, “I’m running late. I can’t stay.”

Alastair faltered, looking taken aback. Then frowning, he said, “I thought you were joining me for a bite before you went back to the office.”

“I can’t.”

Alastair kept looking at him. And he stood his ground, refusing to feel guilty. There was no point in even playing this game. 

Not looking directly at him to begin with, he nevertheless brought his gaze even closer on the asphalt, and started counting the seconds before he could leave. Since he wasn’t even allowed to discuss the actual reason he had agreed to meet in the first place, he had nothing whatsoever to say.

His father then came forward and took him by the shoulder. There was a smile in his voice as he said, “Don’t I at least get a hug? I haven’t seen you in over—”

“I’m not in the mood.”

Alastair faltered again, obviously confused by his reactions, and perversely, it made him feel very good.

“Well,” Alastair suddenly said, as if the thought just occurred to him. “That explains why you haven’t—” 

But Alastair stopped.

He shot him a look. “Why I haven’t what?” he demanded.

“Why you haven’t responded to any of my texts. God knows, I’ve long given up on phone calls, but I at least thought—” 

And again, Alastair stopped. 

He wondered whether this was just a tactic to engage him. But he didn’t want to engage him. 

There was nothing from Alastair for long seconds. And as covertly as he could, he shot him a sharp look.

Alastair appeared to be recomposing himself at his less than warm demeanor, and for a moment looked like he was going to finish his statement on why he thought he should have been answering his ridiculous texts. 

Instead, Alastair smiled. Really smiled, and asked, “How did Miami go?”

“It went fine.”

“So you’re back in charge now?”

He slowly looked at his father.

Alastair raised innocent eyebrows. And actually looked innocent. 

“Okay, okay,” Alastair groused, pressing on, undaunted. “You know what I mean. That part’s back in your hands. I’m certain your mother will be thankful. And the invites to Sean’s family?” he quickly added, not letting him express his opinion on that statement. “Those went out okay?”

“It wasn’t just them, you know. Sean had other people, and so did I.”

“I know, son, I know. It’s why I’m asking.”

He said nothing.

“So Spain’s next?”

He hesitated a moment, then nodded. It wasn’t as if them having chosen to keep the venue was a secret. 

He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out his phone. “I have to go.”

“Sure, sure,” Alastair said, now in good spirits. “But one more thing before I forget. You’ve talked to Elliot?”

“I’m seeing him later. Mom had already sent him an invite as part of her special tier of guests, so... there’s that.”

“Great. Well, it looks like you two have everything in hand.”

“We sure do, dad,” he said lightly. “Don’t forget to thank mom for that.”

“Ah, come on. Don’t say things like that. Your mom just wanted to help.”

He wasn’t about to argue. He made to turned back toward the walkway, and found himself halted as his father took him by the shoulder. Stopped, and finding himself turned partially toward him, he kept his eyes on the asphalt and waited for this to be over.

Instead of saying anything, Alastair had gone back to simply staring at him. 

And standing this close to him, he absolutely was not going to turn and look at him.

He didn’t want to look over there and see himself unable to hold his own. With his head on his father’s shoulder. Still desperate after almost one year, spilling words he had promised himself he would never again say to him. Caved in and crying like a confused little boy.

Unfinished business Sean called it. Well, he could think of other, more appropriate names for it.

Unable to escape the image, he stood there swallowing bitter humiliation. When Alastair still hadn’t released him, he risked an irritated glance...only to find Alastair beaming at him.

His father looked looked completely thrilled with happiness. 

And unexpectedly, tension gripped him like an arm around his body, and he realized with utter embarrassment that he was about to respond.

His eyes still lowered, he stiffened himself so completely that it was only because of preoccupation with his own happiness that Alastair failed to notice.

Very subtly, he moved his shoulder, but Alastair was holding him firm.

So he kept his eyes averted...and if he was blushing it was only because it was normal to react to someone else’s happiness. No matter who that person happened to be.

“You look well, son,” Alastair said, his voice filled with emotion. “There’s no question that he takes good care of you.”

He could have laughed. This, from the man who had actually called> his relationship cheap, in so many ways that he had lost count, and who even now was probably ready to write Sean a check and send him on his way if Sean called and said his son had broken it off. 

Now Alastair stood there smiling like a man who had just heard about this amazing type of love, that didn’t need his or anyone’s approval, that didn’t need to put itself on display to be judged acceptable, and he was okay with it.

“Great guy, that Sean,” Alastair said, as if to himself. “He made me see some very important things more clearly. I still don’t know how he did it. But Holden, I’m very grateful. Because you are the most important thing in the world to me. And for a minute there,” Alastair let out a breath and shook his head. “I don’t think I was getting it right.”

The words were so insane that he almost looked at him. 

“I’m so happy for you. And I’m also happy for _us,_ ” Alastair continued. “For how far we’ve come. You don’t know how much pain it’s caused me to constantly be at odds with you, when I think of—”

“Dad,” he said. “Give it a rest. This is uncomfortable and gross.”

Alastair stopped mid-sentence, blinking in surprise. Then he narrowed his eyes, and feigned a frown, asked, “Can I trade you in for Sean?”

“Whatever.”

He’d had enough.

Freeing himself, he resumed his walk around the Club building. He said nothing as Alastair fell in step with him, putting an arm around his shoulder and locking him close.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” Alastair said, squeezing his shoulder.

He let him.

“By the way,” his dad continued. “Sean hasn’t been up to the house since he got back from playing football. Which I believe makes him overdue for dinner. Why don’t you find out when you guys can come up and we’ll have a warm Mexican welcome waiting for him.”

They had reached his car. 

Concentrating on unlocking it, he was tempted to ask his father whether he could think of any reason Sean hadn’t had a chance to come up to his house since returning from the season. For dinner or otherwise. Something perhaps to do with the horrible things he said that had sent Sean running from L.A. and that had nearly wrecked their relationship.

He had successfully unlocked his car, had opened it and was about to make his escape when his father stopped him. Apparently unable to contain his happiness Alastair turned him around, looking fully into his face, then pulled him forward and wrapped him in a tight hug.

He stiffly bore it.

Seconds passed and the embrace wasn’t letting up. Until Alastair turned and kissed him on the cheek...while making the same sounds a father would smooching his beloved toddler.

_Jesus Christ._

This wasn’t actually happening.

Releasing him, his father finally stepped back, smiling. Then shooed him toward his car with a wave of his hand.

He turned around and got in.

He inserted his key and turned the ignition.

He did so consoling himself with a few things. First, he had maintained his dignity. He hadn’t fallen for this fiasco a second time, whatever this new strategy was his father had devised to stay relevant in his life.

Second, planning a wedding was a temporary affair.

He wouldn’t have to see them for months again afterward if he didn’t want to. And in the meantime he was smart enough to find a way to cope without having to deal with this every day. And third, which he was thinking as he pulled out of the spot and out of the parking lot, he would strangle Sean in his sleep if Sean ever asked him to do this again.

~*~


	4. Chapter 4

Hours later, he was blissfully showered and comfortable in an old T-shirt and jeans, and was in his kitchen making himself some fresh carrot juice.

One his way back from his run, he had encountered Gia and her housemates on his way back from his run, giving a course to other physical trainers.

Their reaction upon seeing him would have been comical were it not for the fact that he had felt himself getting emotional too. They sure had had seen some strange times together. And through their eyes he realized how mythic some of the stuff on the internet about him and Holden had gotten. They had to make sure he was real!

There had been a lot of mmm’ing and sighing when he had pecked them one by one on the cheek, after they had sent him on his way to “go do his work,” and he couldn’t help but notice that they had no problems getting their kicks from physical contact with him regardless. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed it before.

The last half or so of his run had also had him being trailed along the coastline by paparazzi with telephoto lenses. Reminding him almost pointedly of what he _didn’t_ miss about living in paparazzi friendly Malibu.

Pitcher filled, he grabbed a tall glass and went out to his bedroom patio. 

He was staying higher up to enjoy sea breezes on what was promising to be a mild spring day. The sounds of seagulls and soothing ocean seemed to be wishing him a lovely day as well. This, he had definitely missed.

He took his seat under the large patio umbrella and deposited the pitcher on the table. On the table were his open laptop, the two-inch-thick printout of his offseason schedule—which he was sure Kara had already cast in bronze and bound in chains, but which they were going to have to alter much of, God help her—and finally, their new wedding package from Soirée.

It was time to put his summer in order.

Step one was taking back the wedding from the Wilsons. Which he hoped they had actually done. Step two was them meeting with the Wilsons. 

Step three was scaling the high learning curve of understanding, not to talk of planning, a high society wedding.

Reaching for Soirée’s package, he opened it and first saw their new copy of The Wedding Book, the one with the running couple on the cover, and then saw tucked into the inside front and back flaps the worksheets and questionnaires Marissa had talked about. And then other stuff he had no idea about. But sitting frictionlessly on top of the book was a letter signed by Marissa which purportedly explained the contents of the package.

He put the letter aside for now and flipped to the last pages of the book.

Marissa had said that the book very helpfully broke out planning timeframes in the back, in the form of task lists. Though she had warned them not to become enslaved to the lists, he wanted to start by seeing what kind of a timeframe a wedding like theirs required to begin with. 

He planned on superimposing the tasks on his schedule. Once done, he’d have a clear road map for how he was going to manage the next few months.

When he got to the back of the book, however, he sat there in a somewhat mild state of shock, staring at the pages.

The tasks began a year out.

“What the hell?” he said softly, frowning at the unbelievably long list.

The breakdown—in weeks and months—spanned several pages.

“What?” he repeated, leaning in to see whether he was just reading the headings wrongly. He wasn’t.

Jesus. He didn’t plan a _football season_ a year out. And he certainly didn’t remember Davey’s or Allison’s wedding taking a whole year to organize. Who the hell planned a wedding for a whole year?

_Cecelia Hadley-Wilson. That’s who._

Heart thudding, he stared at the pages, reeling from the enormity of what he was looking at.

This was adrenaline flooding his body. The thing that happened when he looked across the field and knew that the other side’s defense had found a weak spot in their offense. Learn the playbook? He didn’t understand the fucking game.

And he was miserable—he didn’t want to use petulant because that would just be too embarrassing—but he was miserable because he realized that he had been living comfortably in his special fantasy that he and his beautiful lover would somehow actually end up in a small, delectable beach wedding.

The one where Holden appeared barefoot in white linen beach pants and had flowers in his hair, and he would kiss him in a fragrant cloud of Hawaiian plumeria blossoms while the whole world melted before their love, before he hauled him off to that cabin in the mountains.

His eyes alighted on his phone amidst the books and pages, and he almost picked it up to call Holden. He wanted to hear his voice and voice his own complaint, to feel hugged and get comforted.

Instead he took a deep breath and sat back, forcing his heart to stop trying to kill him with its pounding. 

The motion brought him from under the umbrella’s shade and he blinked in the bright sunshine.

In doing so, he looked around him and saw open air meeting glinting water, shining sailboats forming a barrier of sorts around late morning swimmers. Residents walking in the sand with no particular destination in mind.

In early spring, Malibu was truly lovely, and as he sat there taking it all in, he was aware of what he held important in life.

He didn’t need anyone to give him the things he already had.

Taking a breath, he located his highlighter and a pencil, and pulled his schedule toward him. He’d lived the dream. Even if only in his head.

And without a second thought, he began highlighting and penciling items that would need to go to make a large amount of space for his frightening wedding tasks.

When he was done, he sat back and looked at his handiwork. His schedule now looked like someone had sabotaged it with malicious scaffolding. The sight nearly made him laugh. Kara’s patience alone was worth every cent he paid her. 

And, wonder of wonders, a few of her interviews had made the cut.

He put down the pencil and highlighter and reached for the pitcher of juice. Pouring himself a large glass, he drank some, then set it down, and picked up his phone. He pulled up Cecelia’s number and tapped it.

It rang and rang, and ended without an answer. At about the sixth ring, it went to voicemail.

He took a silent breath and launched into his prepared speech. 

First, he greeted and wished her a happy new year. Then he apologized for not having called any sooner. He then asked if they could meet.

“It’s about the wedding, of course,” he added. 

He thanked her, said he hoped talk to her soon, and disconnected. 

He looked at his phone for long moments after. Yeah, that had definitely been an okay message. 

Then setting down the phone, he opened up Soirée’s package again, and this time read Marissa’s overview letter. Like the woman herself, the letter was calming and wove everything into a big and perfectly doable picture. It told the planning like stages of a play, making the arrangement of the tasks easier to understand. He re-read the paragraph on themes and began, at least, to grasp the concept of the wedding game. 

When he finished, he slotted the letter into the front flap of the leather binder. 

Now it was just him and the Wedding Book.

Sitting back once more, he got comfortable in his chair, and opened the book to the introductory chapter. It was entitled, in all seriousness, “The Perfect Wedding.”

Then for the first time since proposing marriage to Holden, he focused completely on his upcoming wedding.

~*~

After sundown, he managed to drag himself back into the Westside. He got home to find Holden on the living room balcony. 

Holden was seated in an armchair, poring over the pages of what looked like a real estate analysis report.

Holden didn’t look up when he entered.

He then noticed that Holden had brought home takeout from Yamashiro. 

But, even as he stood there for long seconds, Holden wasn’t rearing to bring up talk about his day, ask about his, nor even whether he had contacted his mother.

In fact, for the first few minutes of being together on the balcony, Holden didn’t say more than two words, “Food’s warm,” and point to the table with the food.

Holden still in his work clothes, one leg over the chair’s armrest and staring into the pages of the spiral-bound printout as if looking for gold dust. The report showed pages filled with tables and charts and tons of small print, and Holden's gaze was fixed in a manner that was clearly not attentive. He hadn’t looked up when he entered, just pointed to the table with the food on it.

The table held foiled-covered containers from the restaurant, a pretty fortune cookie bag, and a large bottle of water accompanied by two sake cups.

He wordlessly absorbed the situation.

So they were having takeout from one of their more special-to-us restaurants, the place where they had had their first ever date in what qualified as one of the most romantic nights of his life, but they weren’t getting cozy on the couch and Holden didn’t look like he was about to entertain him with stories of his day.

Holden didn’t look like he was about to engage him at all.

Conclusion, the meeting with Alastair must not have gone as Holden planned.

Evidently, Holden hadn’t given Alastair his ultimatum—Holden would have led with that, blurted out as defensively as humanly possible. But by no means did that cover all that might have happened.

He prepared himself for an interesting evening.

Walking slowly to the table, he extracted his phone and wallet and deposited them on a side table, and sat down. Holden’s attention remained on the report, his expression impassive.

“Thanks,” he told him, indicating the food.

“Welcome.”

Finding what little space there was on the small table, he folded his forearms and placed his chin on his shoulder and stared at him. “Aren’t you going to join me?”

Holden at first remained unresponsive. Then, setting aside his report, he slowly stood up and came over. 

Holden stood next to the table and without saying anything, began unwrapping the containers of sushi and seaweed. Pulling back his arms, he give him room to work, though he kept his hands at the ready in his lap as each container was skillfully and inexplicably one-handedly unwrapped, knowing each had a fifty-fifty chance of ending up on the floor.

Nothing went amiss, and he relaxed and thanked him.

Holden, though finished, hesitated by the table, apparently still undecided as to whether to join him or keep him banished to an island of silence. In the hopes of helping him make the right decision, he lifted a grateful gaze at him. 

Holden stared at their takeout instead of at him, and with lights twinkling around them beneath their tower of glass, it was on the tip of his tongue to ask him whether he didn’t still love him from their blissful nights in Johnston.

But Holden looked much too pissed off to entertain attempts at a serenade. So he waited in silence as Holden withdrew his hand from the table as if it had been about to conspire against him, and muttered that he’d be back.

He got up and went into the kitchen to get them some paper plates while Holden headed upstairs to change out of his work clothes.

He was back and seated at the table when Holden returned shortly after and reluctantly pulled out a chair and sat down. 

Holden had changed into navy sweats and a jersey of soft material that made him look mouthwatering. His hair had loosened from the confines of the day but it was staying off his forehead as if in league with Holden’s acrimony. 

Though his hair did look a bit tousled, like Holden had gone upstairs and tried to yank it out.

Well, he supposed he ought to be grateful that Holden didn’t just pull out his phone and delete anything “Sean Jackson”-related in it.

He felt a smile pulling and instantly killed it.

Holden had picked up his chopsticks and had pulled the nearest container towards him. He started serving himself. He picked up the containers and started lining his plate with sushi as well.

The silence went on for a few more moments, as he began to eat and Holden still piled food on his plate.

 _Huh,_ he couldn’t help thinking, impressed. This really was his new post-Johnston sweetheart who wasn’t leaving him and walking away for a few days like he normally would. Or eagerly tearing him off a piece of his mind. It was...interesting.

It was actually kind of—

“If you ever make me go talk to him again, Sean, I promise you you’ll be putting that ring on his finger and not mine, come June. _Pray_ he’s not the type that’s squeamish about giving blowjobs.”

He snorted painfully as his sushi went up the wrong pipe and hit his airway with teriyaki sauce. 

Snatching up his napkin, he coughed and held it to his nose, squeezing his eyes shut and swearing into it until the unpleasant sensation passed. 

When he was finally able to open his eyes, he saw that Holden had poured him some water into one of the sake cups, and had placed it before him.

Choking out his thanks, he picked it up and sipped it, using it to cover his amusement. He had actually been about to finish the thought that he found the new stoic Holden kinda sexy, but nah, it couldn’t hold a candle to his usual sweetheart.

Holden didn’t look so amused. He set down the last of the containers and without a look at him, started eating.

“What happened, sweetheart?” he asked gently.

“I got there and couldn’t remember why I had to explain my decisions to him. So I left.”

Holden didn’t add anything more, and he stopped himself from raising an eyebrow. That couldn’t have been all that happened.

That couldn’t have been all that happened. Sure, there’d been no more talk of parents not participating—Holden would have led with that, as defensively as humanly possible—but Holden couldn’t have waltzed in and out of there like he was suggesting either.

Cautiously, he asked, “Did he...ask about anything else?”

“He asked about Miami. And what we were up to.”

He waited. 

Nothing more.

About to venture into dangerous waters and outright ask how it had been seeing his father again, he found himself instead watching in total silence as Holden slowly, uncontrollably, began blushing a bright, bright red.

So there was this...

Holden acted as though nothing was happening, and tried to continue eating and stuck a chopstick into his lip. And after recomposing himself somewhat, Holden set the chopsticks down.

“Are you all right?” he asked sympathetically.

“I’m totally fine.”

Tightening his lips, he pushed the rest of what he had been about to say—“It’s okay that you’re blushing, it makes perfect sense when you’re reconnecting with childhood emotions,”—back down his throat. He just waited to see if Holden would ask for any help.

But Holden just wiped his lip, swore very adorably, and threw him a look as though he was worried he had seen all that. Which, he didn’t even know what to say, he had.

Whether Holden wanted to admit it or not, Alastair at least was conscious of something seismic having happened between him and his son. So while Holden could ignore the texts and phone calls, it couldn’t have been possible to ignore Alastair’s exuberance while in each other’s presence. And after having waited over two weeks to see his son again, he was quite certain that all that exuberance must have put Holden in a seriously tight hug.

God knew it wasn’t his intention to make light of Holden’s situation with Alastair, but he did find it amazing that in the face of both father and son’s identically open and heedlessly outgoing personalities, that either could even remember to be suspicious of the other. Forget Allison saying that he and Davey and Holden were peas in a pod, the true pod-buddies were Holden and his dad.

Feeling his smile returning, he made himself think of poor performance stats and other not so funny things.

“What’s so funny?” Holden asked, at which point he realized he had failed.

He cleared his throat. “Well, I could tell you, but you’d probably have to kill me. And...I don’t want you to do that ‘cause I remembered you said it’d hurt you too much.”

Holden had shifted a dark blue gaze on him, his eyes still. He slowly said, “No, what I said was that because I’d die with you, but now I’m rethinking that.”

Which didn’t help curb his smile. Scratching the side of his face to cover it, he gave him an apologetic look. 

Holden lowered eyes to his plate. “You thought he was pretty nasty, too, last summer,” he said softly.

Sitting forward, he picked up his chopsticks once more. “What I went through last summer wasn’t about your folks,” he quietly replied. “I told you that.”

Holden didn’t respond. He just pursed his lips and looked away. 

While he watched him from the corner of his eye. Around them, the cityscape twinkled into the horizon, reminding him of the coast of Del Mar that night on the boat. And before him, he saw the same anger and confusion as on that night, shining from the depths of Holden’s eyes.

But typically, Holden didn’t seem aware that his eyes were giving away more than he cared to divulge. Those emotions spoke louder to him than any of Holden’s words.

“Sean I don’t want to ever do this again.”

“It’s okay—”

“No, it’s not okay. I didn’t do any of this for him, so I really don’t need to stand there and listen to him try to manipulate me. Once in a lifetime should be enough.”

Seeing a chance, he cautiously asked whether he just didn’t believe anything Alastair had said on the boat.

“I believe every last thing he said about me, about my past relationships, about us. I believe he was speaking the truth then, yes.”

“What about—”

“I told you,” Holden said tightly, his blush darkening. “No.”

He just kept watching him. 

Holden hadn’t in fact told him what exactly Alastair had said to him in the stateroom. It was not that he expected him to, but Holden didn’t seem capable without blushing so much that he would lose the ability to say the words. He had only protested that night on the boat that it was all fakery. 

But he could very easily guess what words had transpired, knowing the relationship Alastair craved with his son. Knowing what it felt like to have a parent open their heart.

“Sweetheart,” he said gently. “Just remember to stay open to him, that’s all.”

“That’s the _last_ thing I want to do.” 

And there was still so much anger and confusion flaring from Holden’s eyes that he knew Holden needed to get it all out. He looked like he was living the moment all over again.

“I shouldn’t have let him say those things to us,” Holden said, with difficulty. “He _knows_ what it did two months ago, and he had no right to bring up any of it. How can he be so heartless?” Holden asked, his voice weakening with the force of his feelings. “I-I should’ve protected you from him. Instead I was so helpless and so stupid and so— I was caught off guard,” he finished weakly.

“Sweetheart, you were brave. You may not remember it too clearly, but you let him have it. And he was trying his best. And about the stuff he said, Holden, I told you,” he said with finality. “I already faced those demons. Believe me, nothing Alastair said could’ve been worse than what I put myself through in the winter.”

Holden couldn’t seem to look at him. He didn’t seem to be hearing anything he was saying but the bad.

“Holden, look at me.”

Holden did. And he with his heart beating hard, he sat there and play tough love.

“Holden, your dad loves you. Didn’t he tell you that on the boat?”

“Oh, like that’s hard to say.”

“For a man like him? I’m pretty sure it is.”

Holden gritted his teeth. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“Why?”

“Because I told you. I don’t need him. I don’t need either of them. I’m not allowing him near me any more. I don’t know how you’re not angry about any of this.”

“You don’t plan on seeing him all summer?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“And what, you don’t need them because you have my family?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“Well, I don’t know how you’ll pull off not seeing him all summer, but you can’t have my family.”

Holden blanked. Then, as the words sank in, Holden gave him a look so outraged that only the suddenness of it saved him from bursting into laughter.

“You can’t,” he insisted, urging himself to maintain a serious tone. It wasn’t a laughing matter. “I won’t let you use them as a shield. Or an escape route. They can’t help you that way.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sean,” Holden said blandly. “I don’t understand metaphors in the context of my own life. Besides, _you’re_ the one Alastair loves. And I’m pretty sure Anne and Wil love me. So you’re too late, and we don’t even get to pick.”

“Sweetie—”

“No, Sean. I’m _done_ with this conversation.”

He sighed. “Holden, I already told you this and I told Alastair the same thing, but I’m gonna say it again. It’s okay that you need time. Nobody’s rushing anyone.”

“Well, thank God for that.”

“But believe me, Alastair wants to get this right. And I don’t care what he says about me. It’s you he loves. And Holden—”

Holden had gone back to eating his sushi with concentration. He was slowly closing off.

“Sweetie.”

“Yeah?”

“You know what that means?”

“Do I know what what means.”

“The fact that Alastair loves you.”

“What does it mean,” Holden asked, disinterestedly. 

“It means that you have all the power in the relationship.”

Holden momentarily closed his eyes and shook his head. Apparently he had crossed too far beyond the boundaries of even outrageous for a response.

He sat back and just stared at Holden.

“Doesn’t any of this seem familiar to you?” he asked him softly.

Holden froze, subtly startled, and blinked a few times. 

For long, still seconds, Holden didn’t seem to know where to put his thoughts. There didn’t seem to be anywhere that was safe from the facts. 

Then Holden resolutely pulled his gaze back to somewhere in the middle of the table, and in the midst of a hard flush that had taken over, visibly closed off the rest of the way.

He contemplated pushing.

But he honestly didn’t see that that was going to help.

— 

Later as they were clearing up the table, Holden told him he would be going to New York in a couple of days, and pointed to the real estate report on the armchair. Glancing at it, he nodded.

“I’m not going to hit fifty-five percent this year. I mean, I can’t. Not with the wedding. So it’ll be nice to be together more often. I mean it _will_ be nice to be together— more...often...”

At first the had no idea what Holden was talking about. Then he remembered his estimates from the night before, and smiled, nodding again.

“Did you talk to my mother?”

Keeping an impassive expression, he shook his head and said shortly that he had left her voicemail.

Holden silently nodded. 

Holden still looked frustrated and preoccupied. But now there was also a contrite, eager to do good look in his eyes, and his heart started squeezing.

He asked him if he would like to join him in the jacuzzi after this.

Stacking empty foil containers, Holden didn’t immediately reply. Then, covertly, his eyes moved across the table and settled on him, roving up his body and across his chest, and coming to a rest on his biceps. His eyes stayed there for a few hot seconds, then with effort returned to the task of clearing up the table.

He didn’t say anything, but almost grinned. He could almost hear Holden’s thoughts, that now was not the time to think about sucking muscle, something Holden sometimes did to his biceps when a particular mood struck him, and which drove him wild, when there were such serious matters at stake.

Holden realized he hadn’t actually answered him and told him couldn’t, that he had the report to get through for the trip.

He nodded, and nodded again when Holden murmured that he’d try and come by “maybe later.”

He had picked up a bulk of the empty containers and had stood up, turning to head into the kitchen when Holden was suddenly standing in his way, clutching his forearm. His instinct was to hurriedly explain why that wasn’t the best place to hold a person gripping stuff, but Holden’s stressed expression and frustrated eyes didn’t allow him to say anything so irrelevant. He set the containers carefully down around Holden’s pressing body and wrapped him in a tight, warm hug.

Holden clutched at him, pressed his mouth to his, then opened up both their mouths and kissed him so thoroughly that he was surprised he still had his clothes on when Holden finally broke the kiss.

“I’ve been steaming all day at you, Sean Jackson,” Holden said in a rough voice.

“I know,” he assured him in a shaky voice. “This feels pretty steamy.”

Holden pulled him in even tighter, and after a hard moment, whispered against his mouth, “We should just go with your family. Right?” 

With his eyes closed, he smiled, and sucked softly on his lip. “No.”

—

Maybe later turned into Holden not coming up to bed at all. 

Finished with his aromatherapy session—a little slice of heaven on earth in that spa room he was gradually getting to love, surrounded by glowing yellow candle flames and a suffusion of dark-scented sandalwood—he had rinsed off and returned to the bedroom.

Having unearthed the cotton pajama bottoms he knew to be Holden’s favorite, he got into bed to uncomplainingly wait to perform his husbandly duties. But that had been a while ago.

What he had actually ended up doing was sitting up and looking over some of the ideas for photoshoots the ad agencies had sent Kara. Endorsement shoots he hadn’t highlighted or penciled at all on his schedule. He couldn’t attempt anything like that without getting killed by Paula. Following this though, he had to give Kara a call.

What he wasn’t going over were theories as to why Cecelia hadn’t called. When Holden had asked about the meeting with her, he had kept his answer brief, not wanting to betray that he was worried at her silence. And though he was tempted to speculate as to why, there really was no point.

His eyes eventually alighted on the mantle clock, at which point he saw that midnight had come and gone. And shoving everything off the bed, he went downstairs to check on Holden.

On the ground floor, Holden’s study door was cracked and the light was on, so he peeked in.

Holden was seated behind his writing desk, still as a statue. He was staring at the phone in his hand, his thumb the only thing moving on him, slowly scrolling the screen. He appeared to be reading texts.

Silently, he withdrew from the hallway and went back into the living room.

The panoramic views of the city at night having always been all right by him, and wanting to cuddle too badly to go back up to bed alone, he laid on the sofa and closed his eyes. 

Holden’s issue with Alastair was obvious, of course. Holden was afraid of his feelings. Of trusting. He had, after all, been here before, having been kept on the other side of this particular door longer than he cared to remember.

And of course his words had touched a nerve because Holden remembered just how their own chasm of trust had been bridged. What it had been like when he had finally realized that he held the power in the relationship.

He had stopped being afraid and had put their love to the test.

And that was the issue now.

The question was, was Holden willing to take that journey with his father. 

Was he ready to put into practice all those things he had learned in Johnston and which he rightly held so dear.

That awful day he left Holden in his house in Malibu, the day he left for Iowa, he remembered Holden saying that their relationship had changed him. It still made his knees weak remembering how Holden had gripped him and refused to let go. How completely he had believed him.

But Holden himself didn’t seem to grasp just how deep that change went. 

He knew Holden loved his father completely. Otherwise they wouldn’t be discussing Alastair for more than a few seconds. And there wouldn’t be any tears. But each thought of facing his father, of cracking that door to even the tiniest of possibilities, sent Holden to a place of so much vulnerability that Holden believed that only closing off might save him.

But Holden had taken this leap before. 

_And you can do it again,_ he silently projected at him.

But, he also knew that in the midst of a maelstrom, it was sometimes hard to reach out and touch something right there in front of you. 

As with him making the decision to come of out the closet and give Holden his walking papers, he was well aware that this was a problem only Holden could solve.

He hadn’t finished the thought when the sound of his phone ringing broke the silence of the condo. He had left it upstairs.

He got up and returned to the bedroom, where he picked it up from among the endorsement portfolios on the nightstand.

It was Alastair calling.

—

Sliding the phone unlocked, he entered Holden's closet room, closed the door behind him and brought the phone to his ear. “Hey, Al. Long time no hear.”

“Sean, he won’t return any of my messages,” Alastair said without preamble. “I don’t think this is working.”

“It’s working,” he assured him. “Al, you’re doing great.”

“Great?” Alastair said, as Holden would when he had said something that seemed outrageous. “He wouldn’t even stay for a bite. He could barely let me touch him. I used to be able to _hug_ my son.”

He stared wordlessly at a rack of brownish suits while Alastair talked. 

“My companies are doing great, Sean, I don’t know what _great_ is in the context of a relationship with own son. It-it’s embarrassing, but I have to tell you— I’m not— I’m just not quite sure what I’m supposed to be doing right now, what _else_ I’m supposed to be doing.”

He felt Alastair’s confusion almost palpably. He could only imagine how inexplicable Holden’s rejection must seem to him. He could have told him to take a deep breath and count to three years, but he somehow didn’t think Alastair had it in him to cope like he had.

“I understand it feels that way,” he gently told Alastair. “But these things take time. You’ll both get there.”

“I wish I could believe that, Sean. I really do. But I feel—” 

But Alastair had stopped talking.

Seconds ticked by with Alastair not finishing his thought. 

As he waited, he stared now at a drawer of watches Holden had led open from that morning.

At their lunch after Valentine’s Day, Alastair had admitted that during Holden’s entire adult life, he had never concerned himself with either his own or Holden’s feelings. He had just always done whatever was needed to protect his son’s interests.

But now Alastair was having to use the dirty word in reference to himself, and he was sure Alastair didn’t even know _what_ he was feeling.

“I don’t want to keep feeling that I’m hurting my child,” Alastair said. “You understand me, Sean? I thought I’d done the right thing. But now I’m not so sure.”

“Al,” he said reassuringly. “Believe me, you got nothin’ to worry about. I’d tell you if you did. Holden just needs time.”

“But it’s been _two weeks._ ”

He felt the words like a knock to the head. Yikes.

If two weeks was a problem, there was no end in sight to the bad about to happen to this guy.

“Okay,” Alastair abruptly said. He evidently no longer wished to talk about it. “Please just tell him he can still call me if he ever wants to have lunch. He used to at least do that.”

Alastair thanked him and disconnected. 

Slowly, he lowered the phone and locked it.

This was definitely going to be an interesting summer.

~*~


End file.
